


One Feels Like a Duck Splashing About in All This Wet

by CaveatPromptor (so_many_ships)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, picnic date
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 13:03:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5667031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/so_many_ships/pseuds/CaveatPromptor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Lestrade meet for a picnic date in the park. Fluffy & sweet. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Feels Like a Duck Splashing About in All This Wet

**Author's Note:**

> These characters are not mine, and I mean no disrespect to their various creators and owners. Thank you all for creating characters I love enough to write about. 
> 
> The title comes from John Mulaney's special "The Comeback Kid". The quote that follows "One feels like a duck splashing about in all this wet" is "and when one feels like a duck, one is happy!" (Which reflects how I feel about this established relationship Mystrade idea that I just had to write). :)
> 
> I'd like to dedicate it to my partner (bakerstreetbaker on Tumblr), and thank him and my daughter for beta'ing (although any mistakes are my own, of course). <3
> 
> Please let me know what you think, I'm so new to writing (and especially finishing) fic, and I really welcome any feedback or constructive criticism you may have! :)

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade left work late that Saturday morning, long after the sun had risen and begun to burn away the day’s fog. His face was showing signs of the long hours he had just finished spending to file paperwork for the case he had finally closed the evening before. Despite how tired he felt, a brief smile crossed Greg’s face as he opened the door of his car, knowing that before long, his mood would be improving despite himself.

  
As Lestrade pulled out into traffic, an always-bustling Scotland Yard fell into the distance in his rearview mirror, leaving the weight of the world behind with it. He hadn’t had a day off in a long time, but now he’d be getting at least a few coming his way, and soon, he’d be with his favorite person in the world. 

  
Considering this, Greg knew the exhaustion he felt at that moment would shortly be replaced by contentedness, and his expression began to brighten in anticipation. A short way across the city, Mycroft Holmes was getting up from his tailored armchair at the Diogenes Club, an empty tea mug and loosely refolded newspaper abandoned on the table at his side.

As the serious-looking man (who — though not many knew — single-handedly ran much of the British Government) left the worn brick building he visited on most weekdays, his assistant Anthea opened the door of an imposingly sleek, black government vehicle waiting at the curb in welcome.

  
Without any words to spare for his long-suffering assistant, who herself remained uncommunicative (except for a quick glance and a nod while she continued to work ceaselessly on her mobile), Mycroft slid across the seat, and reached for his own phone to send a quick text to his awaiting companion. “En route. -M”

  
Greg felt the buzz at his hip, and as he navigated the car park at the market across the street from where they’d be meeting, fished his phone out of his trouser pocket, and read the incoming message. “Just leaving the market and should be there soon myself,” Lestrade replied, “see you at our usual spot.” With both calm and excitement fighting to gain control of his current emotional state, the greying detective’s exhaustion was barely able to cast a shadow across his happier mood as it bubbled to the surface in earnest. After pulling into the lot at the park with the duck pond they often frequented, Greg lifted a wheeled ice chest out of the boot of his car, and headed with it towards a cozy bench on the far side of the pond.

  
Holmes exited his ride at precisely the moment he meant to — no sooner, no later — and it pulled off down the street as he shut the door behind him. With three minutes to spare until their agreed upon meeting time, the dapperly dressed bureaucrat walked with sure strides through the paved path leading to his intended destination. As he pulled over the last hill, at 1100 hours on the dot, a beautiful sight met Mycroft’s eyes, causing them to crinkle at the corners ever so slightly from the grin now spreading across his lips.

  
Greg looked up from arranging their picnic feast on top of the now emptied and closed cooler. In the instant he saw his partner, the serene look of productive busyness he’d had the moment before slid into one of radiant joy with _just a little hint_ of “something naughty” tucked into one corner of his smirk, and reinforced by those damning (but adorable) dimples.

  
“Right on time as always, babe.” he said jovially, while patting the empty seat next to him on the bench. “I’ve got our picnic all set up here,” he continued, “we’ve got meat and cheese from that fancy shop you like across the way, assorted crackers, veg and fruits, and a little nip of a fruity red to wash it back with. Not too shabby, huh?” he teased.

  
“Mmm, I could _definitely_ go for some of Henderson’s amazing charcuterie,” Mycroft practically purred upon hearing of the offerings at hand. “Dear, you’ve outdone yourself again.” His doting companion knew the pinstripe-bedecked man was always up for a good nosh, especially when artisanal fare was to be had. “Let’s take a look at this bottle of wine first though, shall we?” Holmes posited, as he reached out to pick it up.

  
It was a middling grenache-syrah blend, with an unassuming label, notably from the Cotes du Rhone region, which, Mycroft reflected, promised much in the way of flavour. Greg passed Mycroft the bottle opener, and within moments they were tasting their first sip of the heady varietal. “Bright berry notes — mostly raspberry — spicy undertones, and a sweetness that carries the flavour without overwhelming it... wonderful choice love. Would you care to make a toast?” Holmes smiled patiently.

  
“You know I’m not much for speeches — especially on the spot — but I guess we can just toast to getting this time to spend together in one of our favourite places, eh?” Greg offered, a little bashful at being put on the spot.

  
“It is lovely, isn’t it? And made all the lovelier by sharing it with you.” Mycroft cooed, the sincerity in his eyes masked by the playful smirk he gave to hide the depth of his true feelings. While Lestrade knew they shared a depth of emotion more poignant than either had yet spoken aloud, it was moments like these that gave him the most insight into his partner’s feelings. When Mycroft tried to hide his sappier moments, they just shined through, that much brighter in Greg’s vision.

  
“To sharing it together, then,” the detective added warmly, as their eyes played over each others’ faces and they clinked glasses, drinking up all the little details of one another’s expressions, before they brought the wine to their lips again and imbibed.

  
The two men conversed fondly as they began to explore the containers of food spread before them, each setting up a little serving to their preferences; Mycroft’s artfully plated and ever-so organized (“One _must_ consider the visual palette as well as the flavour, you know…”), while Greg’s was little more than a haphazard pile as he slapped together layers of honeyed ham, genoa salami, multigrain and wheat crackers, cucumber slices, cherry tomatoes, melon wedges, hulled strawberries, along with various cheeses, spreads and dips.

  
A family of ducks splashed at the water’s edge, near the bench they shared. The two lovers listened to the soft ruffling of wings and quiet quacks in front of them, while finishing their meals and sharing easy conversation. Even the simplest of topics was enough for each of the pair to dive into one another’s company wholeheartedly, and neither man had to want for attention or affection, as each knew the other was as hopelessly infatuated as they were themselves.

  
After what felt like too short of a visit (as it always did), Mycroft rose from the bench and announced, “My time is almost up love, must be heading back to the office before Her Majesty’s Civil Service grinds to a halt…” A very 'pleased with himself' grin washed over his face, which — while Greg would never openly admit (especially in earshot of his often 'quick-to-preen' boyfriend) — was damn well the most adorable expression the DI had ever seen. God, he loved and _hated_ Mycroft’s smugness, but truth be told, Greg’s affection always won out in the end.

  
The detective rose as well, and leaned in for a brief but tender kiss, that left Mycroft’s grin melting into a pink-cheeked blush.

  
In turning to make his grand exit (and hide the redness now blooming up from his collar), Mycroft miscalculated how closely behind him the soft edge of grass was, and just as his back leg slipped out from under him, Greg hastily leapt forward, trying to halt his beloved’s descent.

In a blurred rustle of limbs and gasps as each man tried to gain solid footing, their frenetic dance suddenly turned into a comically abrupt _SPLASH!!_ into the lake, and as the ducks quacked loudly and hurried away from the tumult, the two companions broke into a fit of laughter that could be heard clear across the park, and likely well down the adjoining side streets. 

  
Greg’s oversized guffaws, and Mycroft’s breathless chuckles that racked his body relentlessly — while still somehow making almost no sound — slowly faded as the water ran off their faces. They sat, looking giddy but defeated (and nearly drowned) in the duck pond at their favorite park.

  
“I was just about to suggest you come get out of those wet clothes at my flat,” Lestrade started with a chuckle, before adding “...but I’m sure you’ve got a spare suit at the office, yeah?” He stood with a slight groan and reached for Mycroft’s hands to help him up.

  
“One would suppose, but unfortunately, no…” Holmes lied, an amused grin spreading as he accepted Greg’s assistance, and got back onto his feet. “I guess we’ll have to make that detour — to _clean up_ , of course — before I head back to the office.”

  
“Right then,” Greg replied, a look of realization crossing his face, “just to clean-up, _of course_ …” as his own smirk took over and set little crinkles about his eyes, “wouldn’t want to keep Her Majesty’s Civil Service waiting."

  
As they walked towards the detective’s car, Lestrade pulled the ice chest along with his left hand, while his right was entwined with Mycroft’s, who himself was texting Anthea with his own right hand. “Clear my afternoon schedule,” he sent, “and please arrange for a decent champagne to be delivered to DI Lestrade’s home address at your earliest convenience.”

  
“On it,” was her instant reply, followed by “...and enjoy yourself.” The usually emotionless woman grinned widely as she hit send, anticipating the _months_ of enjoyment she’d get from teasing her boss about this day.

  
“Right, thank you.” was all Mycroft sent in return.


End file.
